


Daffodils

by rexisnotyourwriter



Series: Before the Flood [1]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, First Dates, First Love, First Time, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:44:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexisnotyourwriter/pseuds/rexisnotyourwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Alec Hardy and firsts: first love, first time, first broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daffodils

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really know how this happened. I was just listening to Daffodil by Dan Mangan and all of these thoughts came into my head and it turned into this.

She was his second period daydream. They had first period together - maths. Afterwards he could think of nothing but the way she put the end of her pencil in her mouth when she was stuck on a problem, or how she twirled the ends of her hair between her fingers like gold silk when she was bored. He sat behind her and over one seat. It was distracting, sure, but what would he need math for?

She caught him staring one day. He turned around so fast he knocked his workbook off his desk. His eyes remained downward as he leaned over to pick it up; he could hear her laughing softly, sweetly. He wanted to die. A hand grabbed the other end of his workbook and his eyes turned up instinctively. It was her. She was smiling. He didn’t know how, but his mouth managed to fumble out a thank you. There was that laugh again. He could feel his face flushing as he gave her an awkward smile and turned back to his desk, burying his face in his workbook.

The next class she said hi to him before she sat down. She leaned over to him.

“Your name’s Alec, right?”

“Ehm, yeah, that’s me.”

_“That’s me”? Oh for fuck’s sake…_

She introduced herself, but he already knew her name. Everyone knew her name.

She talked to him until the lesson started. His stomach turned every time it was his turn to talk, hoping something daft wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

She came up to him in the halls later that day with a question about the homework. He knew she knew what problems were assigned; he saw her write them down. They went from talking about school to jobs to cars to movies and somehow he ended up suggesting they go see one together. As soon as the words left his lips he wanted to bolt, to flee from the inevitable rejection.

“Sure,” she said.

“Really?”

She laughed.

_Fuck._

“Yeah, really.”

He wanted to take her to the drive-in, despite knowing his father was unlikely to lend him the car. He asked his mother first, sort of. He told her about the date, which she asked a dozen questions, and mentioned where he wanted to take her. She said of course he should borrow the car. She convinced his father; he knew that couldn’t have been easy.

He wasn’t sure if a suit would be too much, so he settled for a shirt and jacket. His mother warned him not to wear too much cologne.

“Have fun,” she said as he walked to the door.

“Not a scratch, OK?” his father whispered in his ear before handing over the keys.

He nodded.

She was waiting in the living room when he pulled up to her house. He could make out her frame silhouetted through the curtains. The walk to her door felt like it wouldn’t end, his hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. He knocked. She answered quickly, shouting back a goodbye to who he assumed were her parents, and closed the door behind her.

She was wearing a yellow dress that exposed her shoulders, flowing out from her waist in ripples down to her knees. It reminded him of flower petals.

“Do you like it?” she said, twisting her waist causing the skirt to swish.

“You look-” He tried to find the right word. “Great.”

He kicked himself for that comment almost the entire way to the drive-in.

“Great.” _What an arse._ She was radiant.

He bought them popcorn and drinks and candy. It was maybe a bit too much.

He barely paid any attention to the film. He would look over at her every so often. Was she enjoying herself? Did she like the movie? Was she wishing she was home? Should he put his arm around her? Should he hold her hand? He wasn’t the most experienced at this. In fact, he was probably the least experienced.

Her arms started shivering and he wasted no time taking his jacket off and wrapping it around her. She gently touched his hand to keep his arm around her shoulder. She nestled in closer to him. Her hair smelled like spring.

“Let’s take the long way back,” she said when the movie ended.

So they did.

It was quite late but the moon shone brightly on the road. It was a cloudless night.

She rolled down the window and poked her head out to look at it.

“There’s a spot just ahead where you can pull over.”

He didn’t question it.

Sure enough a little ways ahead there was a wider shoulder where he stopped the car. The moonlight shone right on them.

She gazed at the moon while he gazed at her. She turned to him, smiling even wider. Slowly she leaned in closer to him, and he cautiously did the same, his heart racing. Their lips met, softly at first, but that soon changed. Her lipstick tasted like strawberries. Her hands were on his chest, his lost in her mess of hair. Her fingers worked the buttons on his shirt, then his trousers. He slipped his jacket off her shoulders. She unzipped her dress. She crawled over to him and pushed his seat back. This was it. This was happening.

They lay there for a moment when it was over. She nuzzled her head against his chest and he kissed the top of her head. They collected themselves and their clothes and he drove her home.

“Goodnight,” she said before kissing him in the driveway.

“Goodnight.”

He brought her flowers the next day at school, daffodils. They reminded him of her dress. And her hair.

“Oh, thanks,” she said when he gave them to her.

He beamed at her.

She smiled politely.

He asked if she had plans for lunch. She did. That was ok. Maybe tomorrow.

In maths the next day she came late and sat at the back, even though he had saved her seat. He didn’t see her the rest of the day. He called her house later that night, just to see if she was ok. She wasn’t home. It was a Friday after all. He asked if they’d tell her that he had called.

It was Sunday night and he hadn’t heard from her. Maybe she didn’t like daffodils.

Monday morning he got to school earlier than usual, too early to go and sit in the classroom. He walked around the building. He found her around near the back near the smoke pit. She wasn’t alone. One of the school’s star football players had his lips on her neck and a hand making its way up her skirt. Her hands were in his hair.

He stood there, almost frozen. His grip tightened on the bouquet in his hand, the thorns on the uncovered part of the stems dug into his palm. But it didn’t hurt, not compared to this.

He turned and walked away. He could feel drops of blood falling from his hand, but he didn’t care.

The bell rang.

He threw the roses against the side of the building so hard the flowers seemed to explode in a burst of red petals before floating to the ground.

He sat in the back corner of the classroom near an open window where he could no longer hear her laugh or smell her hair. Outside the wind shook the branches on the trees. A rose petal blew inside and landed on the window sill, trembling slightly in the breeze.


End file.
